


I Packed My Heart In the Box Labeled "Books"

by riventhorn



Category: Merlin BBC
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-16
Updated: 2011-02-16
Packaged: 2017-10-15 17:25:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/163120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riventhorn/pseuds/riventhorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/kinkme_merlin/19600.html?thread=19628432#t19628432">this</a> kinkme_merlin prompt: Arthur/Percival, modern AU, moving in together</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Packed My Heart In the Box Labeled "Books"

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended, no profit is being made from this

By the end of the day, every piece of furniture they owned had been wrestled up the narrow staircase and boxes littered the flat. Despite Arthur’s careful labeling, half of those marked “kitchen” had ended up in the bedroom. Merlin had run into the doorframe when he and Lance were maneuvering the mattress up the stairs, and Gwaine had insisted that he sit down for a while holding an icepack—unearthed from one of the coolers—to his forehead. Merlin had found a perch amid the boxes and proceeded to relate every embarrassing story about Arthur that he could remember, until Arthur was ready to gag him and stuff him in one of the closets.

“You’re lucky you’re getting him now, Percival,” Merlin said. “When we got our first flat, he didn’t even know how to operate the garbage disposal. I found one of the dishcloths stuck in it the very next day.” Here Merlin heaved the put-upon sigh of a martyr, who had only survived five years as Arthur’s flatmate through a combination of sheer luck and his own benevolent nature. “I won’t even mention the first time he tried to cook—otherwise you’ll regard every item of food in your fridge with the utmost suspicion.”

Arthur gave him a glare, but Merlin just grinned in return. Gwaine and Lance were chuckling, but Percival, beyond a little half-smile on his face, was absorbed in putting together Arthur’s desk—a complicated task that involved piles of tiny screws and incomprehensible directions. Arthur wasn’t sure if his lack of attention was a good or a bad thing—was he already regretting this decision? Percival had been the one to suggest it, but Arthur suspected Lance might have been the one to bring it up the first place. It had been Merlin, after all, who had mentioned it to him.

“I really think you should consider getting a place together,” he had said in an offhand way one morning, and Arthur had choked on his coffee and given him a panicked stare.

“Oh, don’t look like that,” Merlin had continued. “It doesn’t have to be an emotional crisis unless you make it one.” He had waved his piece of toast in Arthur’s direction. “Percival is _always_ here. The only reason he’s not having breakfast with us right now is because he went to visit his mum this weekend.”

“If you’re angry about it—” Arthur had begun, but Merlin had cut him off.

“I’m not angry. You know I like Percival, and I think you’re great together. I’m just saying, Arthur, that maybe it’s time for the next step. Besides, ever since Lance and Gwen got married last year, Percival has been living by himself in that cramped excuse for a flat that he can’t really afford.”

“And what about you?” Arthur had asked, peering into his coffee to avoid Merlin’s gaze.

“Well, Gwaine is looking for a new place, you know,” Merlin had said, blushing.

“So really, this is just an attempt to get me out of the way so he can be with you,” Arthur had snapped, beginning to feel offended.

But Merlin’s face had crumpled with distress. “Of course not. We’ve been friends ever since our first day at uni—well, maybe _friends_ isn’t the correct term—” And Arthur had laughed ruefully, and Merlin had joined him, smiling again. “Our friendship isn’t going away, no matter where we live or who we live with,” Merlin had continued. “I just think you’d be happy with Percival, that’s all.”

Arthur had tried so many times after that to bring it up with Percival, but he’d always been too afraid of what his answer would be. And then one evening—was it only three weeks ago?—Percival had mentioned it casually while they were watching football, and a giddy euphoria had overwhelmed Arthur for a moment, and he had blurted out “yes.”

Lance had to go in to work that afternoon, but Merlin and Gwaine stayed, helping to shove furniture around and dig through boxes. They got out enough dishes to last for a few days, and then Gwaine and Percival went out to get takeaway for dinner. Merlin fiddled around with the television, and Arthur went into the other room and had a quiet panic attack behind Percival’s weight-lifting equipment.

“Hey,” Merlin said, finding him there a few minutes later.

“I’m going to screw this up—I just know it,” Arthur groaned.

“Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” Merlin replied cheerfully.

“I’m really not in the mood for one of your Uncle Gaius’s homilies,” Arthur grumbled, but Merlin just laughed and mussed up his hair, batting away Arthur’s half-hearted attempts to fend him off.

“It’ll be fine, Arthur, really,” he added in a softer voice.

Arthur sighed. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Merlin prodded him towards the kitchen. “Now be a good host and get out a few beers for your hard-working friends.”

*

Gwaine and Merlin took off around seven and then suddenly it was just the two of them—Arthur still on the sofa where he had been wedged next to Merlin, and Percival sprawled on the floor because the other chair was stacked high with books.

“Um, I’ll get these, then,” Arthur said, collecting the dirty plates and escaping into the kitchen. He heard Percival follow him. “I’m not as hopeless as Merlin made out, you know,” he added.

“I know.” A second later, Percival was wrapping his arms around Arthur’s shoulders and bending to kiss Arthur’s neck. “And you don’t have to get those. Relax for a bit, huh? I’m gonna check to see if our internet’s working.” He rubbed his hands up Arthur’s arms, kissed him again, and then headed for the room they had designated as office/workout space/library/place for Merlin to kip when he drinks too much and will break his neck if he tries to make it down the stairs.

Arthur abandoned the dishes, rifled through a box and discovered a mug he had forgotten he even owned, and then grabbed another beer and followed Percival. He leaned against the door for a minute, studying the little frown of concentration on Percival’s face as he fiddled with the laptop, the way his black t-shirt pulled tight across his chest. Walking over, he sat down at Percival’s feet, leaning back against the desk. Percival gave him a smile before turning back to the screen.

Arthur pouted a little and tugged one of Percival’s bare feet into his lap. He rubbed his thumb over the ankle bone, and then trailed his fingers down, finally skimming lightly along the sole. Percival twitched and dug his toes into Arthur’s stomach.

Arthur tickled his foot again and gripped it when Percival tried to pull away.

“You,” Percival said slowly, “are asking for it.”

“Am I?” Arthur gave him an innocent look.

A second later, Percival was out of the chair and trying to pin Arthur’s wrists above his head. Arthur wriggled away, making a dash for the door, but Percival grabbed him round the middle, and they rolled to the floor. Arthur managed to straddle Percival for a moment, but the next second he was flat on his back, Percival heavy and warm on top of him. Not that he ever had a chance wrestling against his boyfriend. He squirmed and got an arm free, only to have it snatched back and pressed against Percival’s chest.

Breathless, laughing, Arthur relaxed. “You win. As usual.”

Percival grinned, leaning close to whisper in Arthur’s ear. “And what do I win?”

Arthur pushed his hips up in answer, fitting a leg between Percival’s thighs. Their mouths met in a rough kiss, Percival sliding up a hand to grip Arthur’s hair, tilting his head to the side. Arthur pawed impatiently at Percival’s jeans, but Percival stopped him, nuzzling against Arthur’s neck. “Slow,” he whispered. “I want to make you fall apart.”

Shuddering, Arthur groaned in frustration, but he stilled, watching as Percival inched his shirt up, kissing and licking at the bared skin. He knew every place to lavish extra attention, too, jerking moans and sighs out of Arthur—his nipples, the curve of his shoulder, the hollow of his throat. And he was right—Arthur wanted it slow. He’d thought he wanted it rough, but no, this was better, this building anticipation, giving over to Percival’s hands and kisses.

It reminded him of the first time they met. He’d had a shitty day, culminating in a fight with his father. That evening, he had dragged Merlin off to a bar and gotten absolutely plastered.

Admittedly, his memories of that night were a little hazy, but he remembered Merlin saying at some point, “Arthur, you’re practically drooling,” and he had torn his eyes away from the guy sitting at the end of the bar who was positively _ripped_. At the time it had seemed like a good idea to stumble over and introduce himself. “I’m Percival,” the guy had replied, looking startled. They shook hands, but Arthur didn’t let go, and the next thing he knew he was rubbing his hand over Percival’s bicep and leaning close to whisper in Pericival’s ear. He couldn’t exactly remember what he had said, but it basically amounted to: “Let’s go to the loo and I’ll get on my knees and suck you off.”

Plenty of guys would have taken advantage of the moment. Percival, though, got a firm grip on Arthur’s arm and guided him over to a table. “Let me get you a glass of water, mate—I think you’ve hit your limit for the night,” he had said.

“How much can you lift?” Arthur had murmured, lost in a drunken arousal.

Thankfully, Merlin had appeared at that moment and bundled Arthur into his jacket and out into a cab. Arthur had awoken the next morning to a splitting headache, and when the events of the night before had filtered back into his consciousness, he had groaned and buried his head in his pillow.

“Remembering your drunken exploits?” Merlin had said, coming in with some water and paracetamol.

“Shut up, Merlin,” Arthur had muttered. He finally had emerged from his room to slump on the couch and wonder why he always had to make a complete fool of himself. When his phone had rung, he had ignored it, but Merlin had picked it up.

“I think you should answer it,” he had said, handing it to Arthur.

Arthur hadn’t recognized the number. “Hello?” He gave Merlin a questioning glance.

“Um, hi,” said the person on the other end. “This is Percival—we met last night. You, um, might not remember.”

“I—I sort of do,” Arthur had managed, completely mortified.

“Your friend gave me your number,” Percival had continued, and Arthur vaguely recollected Percival and Merlin talking while he had been struggling with his jacket.

“So, I have tickets for the match this weekend. If you’d, you know, like to come?” Percival had stammered, and Arthur had nodded, finally finding his voice to say. “Oh. Oh, right. Definitely.”

They’d yelled themselves hoarse at the match and afterwards had gone and gotten pizza, and Percival had slung his arm around Arthur’s shoulders and tugged him close.

He always knew what Arthur needed, even if Arthur didn’t know it himself.

Now, Percival sat up, still straddling Arthur’s hips, and stripped off his shirt. He rubbed his hand against Arthur’s crotch, feeling his cock through his jeans, and Arthur arched into the touch, scrabbling at the carpet.

“You don’t have to be quiet,” Percival told him, slowly pulling down Arthur’s zipper. “No one else is here. Just me.” He fiddled with the button on Arthur’s jeans. “You can be as loud as you want.”

He listened to Arthur’s _please_ and _fuck_ and _yes, yes, I need_ — and finally yanked Arthur’s jeans and boxers down, then pushed his own off, too, and lowered himself back down. Arthur’s cock brushed against Percival’s stomach and the wiry hair at his groin, and he felt the slick head of Percival’s against his own skin. Percival rolled his hips, and Arthur spread his legs as much as he could with his pants still around his knees.

“Don’t go slow now,” Arthur begged, and Percival complied, hips jerking, creating a delightful friction while he covered Arthur’s mouth with his.

Arthur held him close, answering the kisses, one hand gripping at Percival’s back while the other cupped the curve of his arse, fingers sliding into the cleft, rubbing with just a hint of pressure. He swallowed the shout of Percival’s orgasm, breathing it in, only to cry out his own, head thumping back.

They lay there for long minutes, sweat cooling, waiting for their hearts to stop pounding. At last, Percival heaved himself up. “Come on, let’s go to bed,” he said, and Arthur reluctantly stirred himself, pulling up his jeans so that he could stagger into the bedroom.

*

The alarm rang at six the next morning. Percival leaned over Arthur to shut it off and then climbed out of bed. Arthur burrowed further under the covers, dozing off again. The next he knew, Percival was whisking off the blanket and shaking his arm.

“No,” Arthur mumbled, clutching futilely at the pillow.

Percival pried it away and handed Arthur his sweatpants instead. Stifling a yawn, Arthur pulled them on, watching blearily as Percival rooted around under boxes until he located Arthur’s trainers. The cold air roused Arthur when they stepped outside, and he started jogging, Percival loping along beside him. They took an aimless route, scouting out their new neighborhood, the sun pacing them as it crept along the tops of the buildings.

They returned, sweaty and panting, and Arthur fumbled for the keys in his pocket. His thoughts were turning vaguely to breakfast and the disappointing realization that all they had was a box of cereal and no milk, when Percival suddenly crowded him up against the wall, his erection hard against Arthur’s thigh.

“What—” Arthur began, but Percival shut him up with a kiss.

“We have our own flat now,” he muttered, hot against Arthur’s throat. “Which means if I want to bend you over the kitchen table and fuck you senseless, I can.”

Arthur’s brain and mouth disconnected for a few seconds and by the time he had gathered his wits, his cheek was pressed against smooth wood, his pants were being stripped off, and his legs nudged apart. Percival pressed his sweaty body against Arthur’s, cock nudging Arthur’s balls.

“Oh, God,” Arthur gasped as a slick finger breached him. The sneaky bastard must have brought lube along in his pocket. A condom, too, by the sound of it. Oh, _fuck_.

Out of habit, Arthur bit back his moans, but Percival said, “Remember what I told you about making noise?” and so he let go, breathy whimpers punctuated by the slick sound of Percival’s cock pumping in and out of his arse.

The table screeched a few inches across the floor, Arthur gripping the edge. “You’re gonna come so hard,” Percival whispered, reaching around and getting his hand on Arthur’s cock.

“Fuck— _harder_ —just—right there, yeah, yeah, fuck that’s it,” Arthur moaned, Percival’s thrusts hitting his prostate at an angle that sent pleasure spiking through his body.

Percival fucked him until he was begging, wild from the stimulation. When he came Percival followed a few seconds later, hips driving his cock deep as it pulsed out his seed.

“Fucking hell,” Arthur managed to say after a moment. “If every morning is going to be like this, I won’t be able to _walk_ , never mind running.”

Percival chuckled and hauled Arthur upright, holding him against his chest. “Let’s get cleaned up,” he said, and they stumbled into the shower—big enough for two—and Arthur ran soapy hands over Percival’s muscles, which always made Percival a little flustered but also ensured that he’d be lifting weights that evening, an activity that Arthur never grew tired of watching.

Arthur felt pleasantly fucked out and relaxed. He whiled away the morning hanging pictures on the walls, using a laser level to make sure everything was straight. Percival shifted boxes around and then settled down with his DVD collection, organizing everything by genre and release date. “Want to watch _A Fistful of Dollars_ tonight?” he asked. “Again,” he added after a pause.

“Sounds good.” Arthur adjusted a picture frame and eyed it critically. Morgana would be pleased that he’d hung one of her photographs in the living room. Not that she’d say so out loud, of course.

He went to fetch another nail and then paused, struck suddenly by the thought that they were _doing_ this—that it felt natural and _right_ —the two of them together. He’d buy that brand of toothpaste Percival liked when he went to the store, they’d fall asleep together on the couch watching reruns, and Percival would hint and cajole until Arthur broke down and agreed that they should get a dog.

“You all right?” Percival asked, glancing up to find Arthur staring blankly at the floor.

Arthur blinked and gave him a smile. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m all right.”

~Fin~


End file.
